The Maharajah's General (18 page)

Jack did his best to seem unfazed at being suddenly addressed in his own language, sitting as calmly and confidently as his poor posture would allow.

‘You stink.’

The comment brought about a peal of laughter from the young man’s cronies, as if it were the funniest thing they had ever heard. The thin-faced noble smiled with smug satisfaction, turning his horse around scornfully.

Jack ignored the barb. The boy could not have been older than fifteen or sixteen, the age when image meant everything. He himself could well remember the urge to impress.

‘
Suuar aa rahe hain!
’ He heard the voice of the umpire shout out the warning to the heat to prepare to begin their chase.

It was the phrase Count Piotr had told Jack to listen for; he had translated it as ‘the pigs are coming’. It was time to hunt.

The horse’s hooves drummed hard into the muddy floor of the jungle, thick clods of earth flung up into Jack’s face as he clung on for dear life. The motion of the horse pitched him around wildly as it galloped through the thick grasses, twisting this way and that with a speed that he could not hope to control. He had given the animal its head and let it choose its own way through the dense foliage, sensing it was his only chance of keeping pace with the other riders. Twice he had nearly been decapitated by a low branch, and his fine blue lancer’s coat was snagged and torn by the dozens of wait-a-bit thorn bushes that flew past before he even became aware of their presence.

Despite his best efforts, the other spears had quickly left him behind, outstripping him within moments of the umpire sending them after an enormous boar that was at least the size of a table. Jack had caught a glimpse of the mighty animal as it thundered past in a blur, a snatched glance at its wickedly sharp tusks and flared nostrils making him doubt the wisdom of trying to tackle the beast with nothing other than an unfamiliar spear.

He could hear the animal up ahead as it crashed through the scrub, but after that first brief glimpse he had seen nothing more than a fleeting shadow. His fellow riders flew after the beast, their loud shouts and whoops of delight spurring each other on. They rode hard, bent low over their saddles, all deference forgotten now the race was on. He could only marvel at their horsemanship as they charged through the jungle, twisting and leaping through the matted branches and dense undergrowth. He felt quite the old man as he brought up the rear, the distance between him and the rest of the heat opening quickly and widening steadily despite his best efforts to keep up.

He jabbed his spurs hard into his horse’s flanks, a flare of annoyance at being left behind goading him on. The horse bounded forward, the raking pain in its sides pushing it to greater speed, its hooves drumming into the ground in a fast staccato. The sudden increase in pace caught Jack unawares. His spear fell from his grasp as he clutched desperately at the saddle, his balance thrown by the violent pitch and fall. He never saw the low-lying bough that jutted from a tangled patch of bamboo, stretching across his path.

The collision was sudden and violent, the speed of the horse driving Jack’s body into the hardened limb with a sickening crunch. The impact snapped his jaws together, the sound echoing loudly in his head as he was catapulted backwards. He had the briefest sensation of flying through the air before he smacked into the ground, all breath driven from his body.

He lay motionless, the pain flaring white-hot across his vision. He had hit the branch with his right arm and now it felt as if he had surely broken the bone. He tried to sit up, but the pain was too intense, so he simply lay where he had fallen, staring up at the thick canopy above his head, the bright sunlight flickering down through the few gaps in the highest branches of the tall trees.

Carefully he reached across with his left hand, anxiously touching his damaged right arm, feeling for the grate and the agony of a broken bone. The pain caused him to curse aloud, but to his relief he found nothing that indicated anything worse than bad bruising.

‘Sahib?’

Jack looked up and saw a smiling brown face staring down at him, the young boy making a valiant attempt at subduing a fit of the giggles.

‘Sahib, shall I send for the doctor?’

Jack forced himself to sit up. The motion made him feel sick. He twisted his head and vomited into the undergrowth, spewing up a liberal amount of the lemon sherbet he had consumed. Guts emptied, he spat out a thick wad of phlegm before wiping his face on the sleeve of his blue lancer’s coat, careless of the dark stain he streaked across it.

‘Help me up,’ he snarled at the young boy, removing the smirk from the youngster’s face in an instant.

As he staggered to his feet, Jack heard a roar of victory from deep in the jungle. He might have fallen at the first hurdle, but it seemed his fellow spears had been more successful. His first taste of pig-sticking was over, his only reward a near-broken arm and dented pride.

He nodded to the young groom and started on the long walk to the midday meal. He would have a few precious hours to rest and recuperate until the cooler air of the afternoon allowed the pig-sticking to resume. The hunt was set to continue until late into the evening and he knew he would have to find the strength to rejoin the chase, the notion of giving in quite unthinkable. His ragged stubborn pride would force him to ride again.

‘Goodness me, Jack. You look truly terrible. Should I presume you fell?’

‘Presume what you damn well please.’

Jack was in no mood for Isabel’s teasing. He had followed the young syce to an enormous canvas pavilion that had been erected in a large clearing in the jungle. His horse had been recaptured, but he had no intention of getting back in the saddle until the pain in his right arm had subsided to a more bearable level. He had stalked into the midst of the gathering, glaring at anyone who caught his eye and doing his best to ignore the looks of amusement and sneers of condescension sent his way.

He had found Isabel reclining on a chaise longue that looked as if it had been imported from the finest salon in Paris. She clearly felt comfortable in these luxurious surroundings. She had been deep in conversation with a young girl, who had made a hasty exit as soon as she saw Jack approaching. He caught a glimpse of a strikingly beautiful face and a slim, lithe figure wrapped in a white silk sari, before she disappeared into the crowd that thronged inside the open-sided pavilion. Despite his exhaustion, he felt his interest rise, and he made a note to ask Isabel who she was.

Had he not been in such a foul humour, he would have been impressed by the Maharajah’s thoughtful organisation. His servants had transformed the barren grassland into an oasis for the tired and sweaty riders. Huge fans covered the inside of the pavilion’s roof with teams of pankha-walas seated around its edge pulling on the thick cords that swept enormous squares of fabric back and forth to create a wonderful breeze within the tent. All four sides had been left open, with thin gauze draped artfully to hide the dozens of sturdy wooden poles that supported the heavy frame. Inside, the pavilion was a place of refinement and comfort. The servants had arranged a whole palace’s worth of furniture, an eclectic mix of chairs, sofas, tables and loungers brought into the depths of the jungle to allow the riders to sit or eat in any way they wished. Beautiful Persian rugs covered the floor, their fine, intricate weave carelessly trodden under the muddy boots of the riders, their delicate beauty sacrificed in the name of temporary elegance. One corner of the pavilion was clearly reserved for the Maharajah and his personal guests, the most dignified personages entertained in a splendour Jack doubted existed in many English country houses, let alone in the middle of a jungle. Elegant crystal and fine bone china had been brought, along with enough food and drink to serve a thousand guests, and everywhere he looked, patient servants waited to offer the riders any refreshment they desired.

‘My poor Jack.’ Isabel held her hand in front of her face to hide her smile. She could see the stains and the muck encrusted on Jack’s new uniform, and from his growled reply to her greeting she could tell he was in no mood to be teased. ‘You must have had a simply awful morning. Let me get you some of this delightful lemon sherbet. It really is quite revitalising. It is just what you need.’

‘No. Thank you. I do not have the taste for it.’ Jack waved away Isabel’s offering. He had no desire for more of the pungent lemon liquid. He waved at another waiter and took a brandy and soda, using the bitter liquid to scour his mouth of the sour taste of vomit.

‘It is astonishing how quickly one becomes accustomed to so many servants.’ Isabel made the remark as she scanned the room. The servants outnumbered the guests several times over, most simply standing impassively around the edge of the pavilion like so many bronze statues, waiting to answer any whim or command.

Her thoughtful comment hit the mark. Jack had barely stopped to consider his action. He had wanted a peg, so he had casually flicked his hand to get one. It was a sobering thought, and he wondered quite when he had begun to take the presence of so many servants for granted.

‘Who was that girl?’ He asked the question trying to sound uninterested.

‘Oh, you noticed her, did you?’ Isabel pouted as she replied.

‘Only vaguely. I was pleased to see that you had begun to make some acquaintances here.’

‘So the fact that she is stunningly beautiful passed you by. You are a terrible liar, Jack.’

‘Come on, Izzy. I barely saw her.’ Jack protested his innocence.

It was the first time he had used a shorter version of her name, and it brought a smile to her face just as he had hoped it would. It spoke of the growing intimacy between them and it mellowed her mood.

‘Her name is Lakshmi.’ She reached out and put her hand on Jack’s thigh, pulling him closer so that she could rest her head on his shoulder.

‘Pretty name.’

‘She was named after the ruler of Jhansi.’

‘So she has a name fit for a princess.’

‘Well that is jolly handy, because she is a princess herself.’

‘Truly? She is the Maharajah’s daughter?’ Jack sounded impressed, despite his attempt at appearing indifferent.

‘Indeed she is. She told me that he has only two surviving children that he acknowledges. Their poor mother died giving birth to her brother, the Maharajah’s son and heir.’

‘His supposed heir. Did Proudfoot ever discuss that with you or your father?’

Isabel lifted her head from where she had rested it against him. ‘No. What do you mean?’

Jack leant in so that he could speak in a whisper. ‘Proudfoot told me that he would never acknowledge the Maharajah’s son as his true heir. He is intent on annexation.’

Isabel gasped, earning her a glare of disapproval from Jack. Fortunately, few people were paying any heed to the pair of white-faced strangers, and he continued quietly.

‘He will apply Dalhousie’s doctrine here. When the Maharajah dies, the kingdom of Sawadh will become part of the British Empire. At least, that is Proudfoot’s plan.’

‘It is preposterous! How can we dictate that his son is . . .’ Isabel blushed before she spoke the next word, ‘illegitimate.’

‘Keep your voice down. I don’t think we are safe here.’

Her concern was immediate. ‘Why do you not think we are safe?’

‘I was speaking to Count Piotr. It appears this court is a dangerous place. We will need to be careful.’

Isabel rallied well. ‘Of course. Especially if what you say is true. If Major Proudfoot is truly intent on annexing the Maharajah’s kingdom, then we will have to make sure we escape before it happens. Goodness, that man. He thinks he can dictate to a king! He has more ambition than I thought.’

‘Of course. He is a political. They relish this sort of thing.’

‘However unfair it may be?’ Isabel looked genuinely flustered as she absorbed the news. Whether her reaction was caused by the potential threat to her life or the unfairness of Proudfoot’s ambition, Jack was not sure.

‘It’s foreign policy.’ He reached across and took Isabel’s hand to reassure her. It looked small in his, her skin pale against his tanned flesh. ‘I doubt fairness is high on their list of priorities.’

‘But what of the boy? He will be cheated of his inheritance.’

‘I’m sure the authorities will allow him to stay on and keep his title. Provided he keeps quiet and does not stir up any trouble, of course. But all power and authority will pass to the Governor. There will be no more of this halfway house of pretence and folly. Perhaps Proudfoot is correct. Perhaps it is better that we rule here.’

‘Better for whom?’ Isabel’s whisper was icy. She withdrew her hand as her anger flared. ‘Surely not better for the prince.’

‘Better for the people, perhaps?’ Jack was thinking aloud. He had not given much attention to the politics of British rule in India. He had arrived thinking only of commanding a company of redcoats. He was a soldier, not a politician, and the more he saw of the machinations of state, the less he liked them. ‘We will build hospitals, roads, schools, universities even. The people will be better cared for under our laws and with all the benefits we can give them.’

Isabel became quiet as she listened to Jack’s arguments. ‘Yes. Perhaps that is better. It just feels wrong.’

‘Is it wrong to want what’s best for people? Even if they don’t know it themselves?’

‘You sound like a parent.’ A mocking tone had returned to Isabel’s voice.

‘Do I?’ Jack seemed appalled at the idea. ‘Perhaps I’m getting old. I don’t know. I just want to be a soldier. An officer if possible.’

‘Only if you can keep finding people to impersonate.’ Despite her best intentions, Isabel could not resist teasing him a little.

‘Oh, it’s not a perfect plan, I know that.’ Jack became sombre as her comment made him think of his past. ‘But it’s all I have now.’

‘Not all, Jack.’ Isabel reached forward and took both his hands in her own. ‘You have me.’

A gentle round of applause and the scraping of chairs being pushed back prevented Jack from replying. Around the pavilion people were getting to their feet, leaving the important business of eating and drinking to one side for a moment as they welcomed the Maharajah into their midst.

‘You are here again, Englishman? We thought you would’ve had enough of crawling around on the ground for one day.’

The same young rider who had insulted Jack that morning greeted his arrival back with his fellow spears with a sneer of disdain.

‘I’m pleased to be here.’ Jack’s voice was icy. He knew he should not let the youngster’s insults irk him so, but he could not help responding. He found himself wondering how the boy would fare if he was ever thrown into battle. He would like to see how long his arrogance lasted under fire.

‘We do not want you. Go back to the women and wait for the men to return.’ The boy’s two cronies laughed on cue, clearly understanding the insult.

Jack stayed silent but continued to look the group’s proud leader straight in the eye. If he hoped to win a battle of wills or to gain a grudging respect, he was to be disappointed. The haughty young noble pulled hard on the reins of his horse, bringing it around in a tight circle as evidence of his superiority over Jack as a rider, as if any were needed. He spoke loudly in his own tongue, the sharp laughter that inevitably followed making it clear that Jack was the butt of yet another barbed comment, albeit this time one he could not understand.

Jack took firm hold of his new bamboo spear. This time, he promised himself, he would not fail to at least remain seated. He had endured enough laughter and scorn for one day.

The jungle rushed past just as before. Yet Jack was beginning to feel his senses coming to life, so that he was not completely overwhelmed by the experience. He no longer flinched from hazards; instead he kept his head up and tried to read the terrain ahead, adjusting his weight and his balance to naturally counter his horse’s movements as it thrashed along at a terrific rate.

He could see the shadow of the boar in front of him, its huge, powerful body ripping through the thick undergrowth. His fellow riders were ahead of him, but this time only by a few lengths. His heavy bamboo spear was held tightly in his hand, his knuckles showing white as he grasped it in a vice-like grip. He was determined he would not suffer the shame of losing a second weapon.

The boar was twisting and turning as it charged headlong through the jungle, its loud snorts coming in fast rushes as it sought to escape the dreadful pursuit. Jack was close enough to catch an occasional glimpse of its heavy body, and every sight sent a primeval rush through his veins. He thrilled with the urge to hunt, the excitement of the wild ride spiced by sparks of fear every time he narrowly avoided another painful collision.

The young noble was in the lead, his horse moving with a lithe freedom as it bounded after its prey. The boy raked his spurs back hard, summoning a final surge from his willing mount, the hunt rushing to its conclusion. Jack saw his arm tense as he pulled back his spear, keeping the dreadful weapon still and level in a casual demonstration of exquisite skill. With a final loud yell he thrust the spear forward, ramming the wickedly sharp point into the boar’s body with such force that the bamboo shaft splintered into matchwood. The point ripped through the boar’s tough hide, taking the beast just behind the shoulder, the spear embedded deep in its flesh.

The boar grunted as the weapon was driven home, its legs still trying to power it forward despite the dreadful blow that sent it spinning to one side. The other riders flashed past, each man hauling on his reins to bring his mount around, their cries and shouts loud as they raced to turn back without colliding with one another.

Jack pulled on his own reins, ignoring the bright flash of pain in his arm. Somehow he managed to bring his horse to a halt, its body already bending to make the turn.

As the rearmost rider, he now had the advantage. He spurred hard, forcing his mount forward so that he led the charge back towards the wounded boar. His mind was racing. He remembered the count’s warning that a wounded boar was a dangerous adversary. He had spotted the wickedly sharp tusks on the brute’s head as they had raced past, and needed no one to tell him the damage they could do to anyone foolish enough to venture into their range. Yet still he charged back the way he had come, risking his life in a childish attempt to prove his courage after the shame of the morning’s failure. He yelled at his mount, urging it on, desperate trying to stay ahead of his fellow spears.